Unless, of course, you like eating stray cat stew. For which, apparently, Italian chef Beppe Bigazzi has quite the affection.
Beppe, some words of advice that men and women of all tastes around the world can agree on: eating pussy = good, eating cat = bad.
Rock 'n roll, John Denver. Rock 'n fuckin' roll.
When it comes to embarrassing moments, there are few things on earth more humiliating than getting caught with a blowup doll in a grocery store parking lot, letting out a loud one in a crowded elevator, or waking up after a night of popping ecstasy to find 54 tattoos on your face.
Then there’s the Wisconsin man who was issued a $210 ticket by police for “unnecessary loud noise” coming from his apartment. The source of all the racket? He was “rocking out” to John Denver.
Just how Rocky Mountain High do you have to be to get all American-Idol with The Bad Pilot? What was next on your agenda, bonging beers and playing naked Guitar Hero to Simon and Garfunkel? Breaking out the 8-piece-pots-and-pans drumset for an arena rock session of Patty Griffin?
Sucks to have your one-man party broken up by the fuzz.
At this year's Oscars, it's rumored Warren Beatty will receive a Lifetime Achievement Award for Doing Everything.
When average pricks brag about how many chicks they’ve poked in their lifetime, one can reasonably assume that they’re exaggerating the figure by at least three. And if large quantities of beer are inspiring the storytelling, guaranteed, the number’s been inflated by at least six. Sometimes considerably more, depending on how big of a dick the romp-and-teller is.
But when a famous stud like Warren Beatty boasts in a tell-all biography that he’s whored around with 12,775 women since age 20, for some reason you believe the fucker. (Quickie math: that’s one new woman a day for 35 years in a row.) Using another sausage analogy, no one doubts Kobayashi can choke down 59 weiners in 12 minutes. Your buddy who says he can eat 12 in 12 minutes? LIAR!
But if you’re Annette Bening, accepting your hubba-hubba-hubby’s frank honesty sucks a big one. Sure, he’s told thousands of legends on his quest to become one. But as certain as it is, Annette, that you need to see your gynecologist immediately, you are most definitely Warren Beatty’s 12,775th notch in the belt.
Kinda makes when he says, “You’re the one,” seem like an exaggeration.
A London-based translation company is offering parents-to-be — particularly celebrities — the chance to check the meaning of prospective baby names in other languages.
And we’ve got bad news for cute little Suri Cruise. It seems that in Italy, her unique moniker means “horse mackerels.” In France, it means “turned sour.” And in Japan, it means “pickpocket.”
Here in America, of course, “Suri” means “spoiled, over-exposed kid who will probably wind up on some crappy cable reality show by the age of 10.”
But, hey, who are we to judge? After all, international embarrassment is the risk you take when you shit-can the “10,000 Baby Names” book, and go rogue.
You know, TomKat, all the pricey Nieman Marcus outfits and cute little bows in the world aren’t going to save your daughter from a life of ridicule on the school yard. You try being called “Horse Mackerels” while you’re playing Four Square. It totally f’s up your concentration.
But Horsey isn’t the only member of the Translation From Hell Club.
There’s Gwen Stefani’s kid, Zuma, whose name in Aztec means “Lord Frowns in Anger.”
There’s soccer star Wayne Rooney’s kid, Kai, whose name means “Pier” in Estonian.
And there’s Gwyneth Paltrow’s kid, Apple, whose name in Missouri means “delicious fruit you can get at the grocery store.”
Sucks to be the kid of creative parents.
I think it finally happened. We ran out of hot women to exploit.
You need only look at this month’s Playboy cover to figure that out. Because Marge Simpson — the rather unattractive, perhaps even homely cartoon character — is gracing the cover of Hugh Hefner’s gift to mankind.
It’s a sad day, really. To think that once we could plop down on the crapper and gaze at the boobs of Marilyn Monroe or Pamela Anderson or Carmen Elecktra. Now all we’ve got is Bart’s feed bags drawn up by underpaid Koreans.
Sucks to be us.
Our plan:Â wait it out for 30 days, and hope that Hugh doesn’t recruit another babe from the animated ranks. Unless it’s Jessica Rabbit. She’s pretty hot.
When George Carlin came down from the mountain and presented to the world the “7 Words You Can’t Say on TV,” Fox News Anchor Ernie Anastos must not have been taking notes. Because recently he dropped a huge F-Bomb on air that reverberated through the virgin ears of all New Yorkers.
His exact words were, “keep fucking that chicken.”
And now, he’s going to get fucked by the Federal Communications Commission.
You see, Ernie, the boys down at the Commish are the biggest group of prudes this side of the Abstinence for Jesus Club of Waco, Texas. So when they hear shit like “fucking chickens” on their sacred airwaves, they go insane.
Sucks to have the wrath of the FCC unleashed upon you.
So, Ernie, have fun watching the Grim Censors come to take away your life savings and your car and career.
If you missed the MTV Video Music Awards, you missed one hell of a Kanye West performance. He didn’t dance. And he didn’t rap. He got up on stage and did his best impression of an asshole.
You see, when the crack panel of MTV video judges gave singer Taylor Swift the statue for Best Female Video, Kanye was outraged. In fact, he was so put off that his choice, Beyonce, didn’t win, that he grabbed the mic from Swift and proclaimed that the judges got it wrong.
Uh, Kanye. The votes have been cast, and you didn’t get one. You’re not in Florida. And there won’t be a recount. So why don’t you just sit your ass down and watch the show like everyone else.
And if you really feel like you need to spew uneducated, hateful opinions at everyone, why don’t you apply for Sean Hannity’s job?
Steve Miller is unable to use trains. Stay in hotels. Or pretty much go anywhere where there are breathing human beings. You see, Steve is allergic to wi-fi.
Steve’s curse is called Electromagnetic Hypersensitivity—something about 2 percent of the population claims to be afflicted with.
Now, being allergic to the 21st century wouldn’t suck so bad if you were say, a goat herder in Rwanda. Or a resident of Wyoming. But if you’re a club DJ better known as Afterlife, well, Steve, maybe you should reconsider your career choice. Because when you’re cutting beats in any nightclub filled with hipsters and people way cooler than everyone else, there’s bound to be an iPhone or two and a bunch of dildos wearing Jawbones.
Until researchers find a cure for fuckthemodernworldoccoccus, Steve is a prisoner in his own home, which has 18-inch thick granite walls. A landline phone. And absolutely no access to Internet porn.
Mommie Dearest, The Sequel
Michael Jackon’s three children have a new mommy — Michael’s mommy. That’s right, Katherine Jackson has been awarded temporary custody of her grandkids by the courts.
Um…Judge Judy…have you seen how her first batch of her offspring turned out?
Her daughter, Janet, decided to become an exhibitionist on national TV.
Her other daughter, LaToya went the freak job route.
And her son, Michael, became the King of Freak Jobs.
Mrs. Jackson managed to exploit her talented, young, naive children and turn them into neurotic, narcisistic loons. And now she gets another shot at mommydome? Yikes.
What’s really scary is that Paris, Prince and Blanket already have a genetic propensity to covet pet monkeys, the remains of human anomalies and Macaulay Caulkin. Stir in a little of Katherine’s love and experience, and God only knows how many face jobs each of them will have.
So be careful, Kath. Get help, Kath. Becuase, quite frankly, the world can’t bear another generation of weirdness from your brood.
If you’re a TV star, a musical icon, a movie actor or, hell, an extra in the community theater version of Guys and Dolls, run for cover. Because the Grim Reaper is looking for you. Or so it seems. This week, he’s taken swipes at all levels of fame. Already he voted Ed McMahon, Farrah and the King of Pop and Pedophilia off the island.
And just when we thought the coast was clear, he knocked off the OxiClean king himself, Billy Mays.
A commercial spokesman, GR? Really? You had to go and kill that guy off? That’s not very nice of you. He was like family to insomniacs surfing cable at 3 am.
Hey, we hate commercial breaks as much as you, big guy. Nothing is more annoying than having the climactic rose moment on The Bachelor interrupted by Florence Henderson selling me a bottle of Crisco. But use the FF button on your DVR for crying out loud. Don’t resort to this.
And who’s next on your commercial hit list? Please, not the Geico Gekko. Not the Priceline Negotiator. Not the Roaming Gnome.
Wait…the Roaming Gnome….hmmm….ok, maybe just one more day of fun for you.
